


reconciliation is the word

by youcouldmakealife



Series: between the teeth [15]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4078327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jake doesn’t text him immediately after the game, so it’s David, chewing his lip, avoiding Kurmazov’s eye, that texts, <i>Are you busy tonight?</i></p>
<p><i>nope</i>, he receives immediately. <i>what do u have in mind?</i></p>
<p><i>Drink in the city?</i> David sends back, and puts his phone away to shower. </p>
<p><i>4 sure</i>, is waiting for him when he gets back, <i>let me kno were 2 go</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	reconciliation is the word

When David said ‘next time’, he meant it, though it would have been easier were he not in a city that three teams were in view of, and a fourth could commute to. The Panthers come back in a fortnight, and two weeks go by fast, David finally making his way back to the Eisler-Chapman-Kurmazov line, and the Panthers are across the state line in Newark, but still too close for comfort. They hit Hartford next, and that’s a little farther, but David thinks, arrogantly or not, that Jake would still make the trip.

Jake texts him intermittently in the meantime, smilies when David does well, trashtalk about the Raptors when David isn’t doing well, and David responds like it’s been dictated to him, can’t help it. Jake’s charming. David knows that, David’s hated that, and David’s never been immune.

The night the Panthers are in Newark, the Isles are playing the Flames at home, and David thinks, ‘next time’, and he may feel a little discomfited, a little off-balance, but he also almost feels relieved.

Jake doesn’t text him immediately after the game, so it’s David, chewing his lip, avoiding Kurmazov’s eye, that texts, _Are you busy tonight?_

_nope_ , he receives immediately. _what do u have in mind?_

_Drink in the city?_ David sends back, and puts his phone away to shower. 

_4 sure_ , is waiting for him when he gets back, _let me kno were 2 go_.

David sends him the address of a place somewhat equidistant, and immediately gets an _on my way_ that forces him to rush through his routine, ducking any look from Kurmazov that he might catch.

He’s later than Jake, but either it’s not by much or Jake hasn’t ordered anyway, and David orders a pitcher of something they both like well enough, then forces himself to meet Jake’s eye.

“How are you?” David asks, at the same time Jake asks, “What’s up?”, and they both laugh. Uncomfortably in David’s case. Maybe the same in Jake’s. David doesn’t know.

Jake starts first, because that makes sense. “You’ve looked good out there,” he says. “Better.”

David knows he has, moderately good play following a drought he’s never experienced before, one that left a bad taste in his mouth then, and still leaves one now. He’d blamed Jake for it, when he’d called, but it was him more than anything, acting like a teenage boy having his heart broken for the first time.

Some of that’s true, but none of it’s an excuse.

“You look good,” David says, and then, flustered by phrasing, “on the ice, I mean. Your play.”

Jake doesn’t even have the decency to smirk, just smiles at him, says, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” David says, knee-jerk.

The waitress comes with their pitcher, and David lets Jake pour, because whenever he tries it’s more foam than beer. He watches the way Jake does it, tilting the glass, the tendons in his wrist standing out.

“You’ve been hanging with the team?” Jake asks, handing the first pint over to David.

“Sort of,” David says. “Eisler’s been bugging me.” Jake’s mouth tips up, like he’s familiar, and he is. Eisler’s been bugging David since he started with the Isles. “Brouwer’s teaching me to take a hit. Kurmazov--” Kurmazov _knows_ “--has been doing extra practices with me.”

“That’s great, Chaps,” Jake says, takes a sip of his own beer. “Brouwer’s not working you over too hard, eh?”

Jake says ‘eh’ more than David. David doesn’t know what to think about that.

“Dave knows about us,” David says, abrupt.

Jake puts his drink down. “I told Dave about me,” he says. “I swear to God I didn’t tell him about us.”

“I told him,” David says.

Jake stares at him.

“He figured it out,” David says. “It’s my fault.”

“It’s fine,” Jake says, though it is emphatically _not_. “Hey, at least he’s got his whatever plan.”

“Contingency,” David says. 

Jake tips his beer at him. “That,” he says. “Are you okay about it?”

“No,” David says, honest.

“It’s better, Dave knowing,” Jake says, and David can’t disagree with that, really, as much as he wishes no one did, because it’s Dave’s job to fix things if they go wrong, and to do that Dave needs to know what could go wrong in the first place. David just wishes he didn’t have to know.

“Yeah,” David agrees, after too long a silence, takes a sip of his drink to excuse any more of it. “How are the Panthers?”

“Good,” Jake says. “Only three of them know.”

“What?” David asks.

“About us,” Jake says. “Only three of them know. I know you’d -- none of them should. But only three of them do, if that helps.”

It does, a little. David’s got Kurmazov, knowing. It’d still be better if no one did.

“They named it the ‘pinkie swear club’,” Jake says.

“What?” David repeats.

Jake rubs his thumb over the condensation on his glass. “I pinkie swore them not to tell,” he says. “So Joe’s calling it the ‘pinkie swear club’.”

“That’s stupid,” David says flatly.

Jake shrugs. “S’what they’re calling it,” he says. “That -- Joe was the one who hung up.”

And the one who texted David, too. At least it’s only one person, watching his indignity. Small consolation.

“I don’t trust you,” David says. He did. He did when he thought Jake had as much to lose. Jake still does have as much to lose, it’s just that he doesn’t care. 

Jake flinches noticeably. “I know,” he says. “I lost it. I deserve that.”

“You told me you were in love with me,” David says, because it’s been gnawing at him since Jake drunkenly blurted it out.

“I am,” Jake says, as if it was easy, and takes a sip of his beer, like it’s on par with the any of the questions this conversation held before. “I fucked up, I get that. I really do. I know that you don’t trust me. But I do, okay? Trust that.”

David doesn’t know where to start. He should probably hang it up, right here.

“How are your sisters?” he asks, and Jake’s answer takes them through the pint, wraps up around when he’s pouring the rest of the pitcher into their glasses, brow furrowed as he tries to make it even. It’s hitting David, low, but he knows it hasn’t touched Jake yet.   
It’s similar smalltalk, which teams are looking good, which players are a pain in the ass, whether the Pistons have a chance this season, the Raptors do. Jake’s got a good eye for hockey, a bad one for basketball, and David misses this so much he finds it embarrassing, makes his throat tight.

Jake insists on paying, when the bill comes, says David paid last time, and David can’t even remember if he’s lying. They end up waiting outside for a cab, David barely tipsy and Jake standing just close enough that David can feel the heat he leaves off. 

This is the point where David says good night, and maybe they get a drink in a month, whenever they’re in the same locale. David had this planned.

“Come over,” he says, and it isn’t a question.

“David,” Jake says.

“Come over,” David repeats, and Jake gets in the cab with him.


End file.
